


For He Who Catches Stars

by bluebottle762



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Character Development, Ghibli AU, Howl's Moving Castle AU, I mean do you need a breakdown? It's Howl's Moving Castle. It does what it says on the tin., M/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-11
Updated: 2019-01-11
Packaged: 2019-10-08 11:36:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17385749
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebottle762/pseuds/bluebottle762
Summary: The hiss of suffering steam rose from the valley to his right, followed by a low groan of metallic discontent─ the kind of noise Ignis would imagine an ancient stove would make if it could contract the flu. Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, he scrambled backwards up the hillside, watching in horror as the great hulking shape of the castle rose.





	For He Who Catches Stars

The sound of chatter from the busy sewing room at the back of his father’s hat shop had, in a lot of ways, been a large part of the soundtrack of Ignis’ life. Some of his very earliest memories were of helping out in small ways at his father’s knee, being cooed over by customers and workers alike. Comments about his growth or politeness were common, as well as compliments aimed more at his parents than himself regarding how well-dressed a young man he was. Invariably, the question that followed all this was always something along the lines of ‘So are you going to become a hat maker like your father, when you grow up?’ ─ the implication always being that he would work alongside his father. Learning the trade and taking up the shop had always been a definite thing. He’d never been offered much choice about what direction his life took, but, he figured, there were worse fates. Running a ladies’ hat shop in the bustling little town of Market Chipping, nestled at the foot of the wastes away from anything particularly exciting, wasn’t such a bad life. 

Except his father hadn’t managed to see him live it, having died three weeks before his only son turned seventeen. Given the unexpected nature of his father’s death, no will had yet been drawn up to decide the hat shop’s fate, and so it passed to his father’s second wife, whom he had married after the untimely passing of Ignis’ own mother. Regardless, Ignis hadn’t been old enough to inherit the place and run it as his own. So, as with many things, he learned to live with the circumstances he found himself in. He still had a job and the skills needed to perform said job. He still had a roof over his head, three meals a day, and a bed of his own. The work could be tedious, and the small room he spent most of his time in could be better lit, but it was what it was. Nothing special, but not enough to complain about. He made do. He was good at making do.

Passing his long dressmaker’s needle through the thick wool of the cloche he was currently in the process of attaching silk carnations to, he tuned in briefly to the frilly tones of his stepmother, engaged in conversation with a long-standing friend and customer.

“Oh I should keep her home dear, just to be safe. She’s such a pretty young thing, and you know what they say—” He heard the soft creak of oiled wood as she leaned over the counter conspiratorially. Her tone turned to that of a stage-whisper full of thrilling scandal, still entirely audible from his little alcove. “He eats the hearts of young women, don’t you know.” 

This again. For the past week, the gossip had been on very little but the great moving castle that had been spotted roaming the wastes not far from town. Or, to be more precise, the supposed ‘Great Wizard’ who owned it. Absolutely none of it concerned Ignis. 

He turned his attention back to the cloche, holding it up to his singular, thick-glassed window to examine it. Now that he thought about it, he wasn’t sure about the pink carnations. The conversation in the other room erupted into salacious giggling.

“Oh _you_! But you’re quite right, I wouldn’t be surprised if it was at least a _little_ enjoyable.” Ignis closed his eyes and willed the conversation out of his mind, focusing again on his work.

Great Wizards and moving castles…. It was as good as fiction as far as Ignis was concerned, the whole affair coming up to rest under the expansive heading of ‘romantic nonsense I don’t have time for.’

As he was busying himself with attaching a third carnation to the cloche, the bell over the shop door jingled merrily, signalling the friend and patron’s departure. The noise of the street filtered in over the time it took her to squeeze her skirts and purchases out the door. Laying the half finished hat down carefully on his workspace, Ignis stood from his high stool and stretched, patting down his thighs to rid himself of any snippets of thread still clinging to him. 

Sure enough, as his old but carefully maintained shoes stepped over the threshold that divided his stuffy little fabric-filled world from the marginally less stuffy workshop, the clock tower three streets over struck six. The small group of women who sat and sewed the hats they sold usually went home by around four unless there was an expected rush. The room felt almost dream-like without them, as if it was some living breathing entity whose sleep he risked disturbing with the careful tread of his well worn shoes.

“Oh there you are dear!” Bustling over to greet him, his stepmother beamed, fluffing up the tightly wound straw curls she’d taken to wearing lately. Her lacquered lips pursed and curved into a cloying little smile that she always used right before she was about to ask a favour she didn’t intend on repaying. “Would you be a dear and lock up tonight?” There it was. “I’m afraid I have a social engagement I’d really rather look my best for, and I dread to think how long that’ll take!” 

Ignis offered her a tired smile, reaching for the ring of keys she was already holding out to give him. 

“Oh bless your stars, you really are your father’s son. So helpful. Well, good night poppet. I shan’t be seeing you until tomorrow at the earliest, so make sure to keep everything in fine working order while I’m gone. You have a nice night.” 

She continued to chatter aimlessly at him right up until closing the shop door after herself, not once letting him get a word in edgeways. Quiet settled over the shop with nothing but the steady ticking of the old clock behind the counter to disturb it. He took a moment to soak it in, closing his eyes to simply breathe for a moment. 

Honestly, he wasn’t sure why she still bothered to ask. He’d been locking up on his own for over a year now, running a broom over the place and sometimes changing up the window display before he crossed the courtyard to the house. He did so today, carefully taking down a spring green bonnet lined with silver satin, a sprig of pearl-laden snowdrops cascading down one side, and replacing it with a deep plum and gold thread creation he’d finished the week previous. 

“You’ll marry into money,” He told it, lifting his chin to look at it disapprovingly down his nose. “But you won’t be happy about it.” 

After sweeping up and turning the place down for the night, he left via the backdoor and locked up, pulling his old grey coat a little tighter around himself as he crossed the courtyard. He did not stop at home, however, instead passing straight through the cosy kitchen and out the back door into the quiet little alley the shop backed onto. He made his way to the familiar cobbles of the highstreet, intent on paying a visit to the bakery his half-sister had been apprenticed to last year. 

The lights were still on as various denizens of the place continued to work in preparation for the morning, although the spacious little shop had closed well before six that evening. Through the large glass shopfront, he caught sight of Cindy disappearing through a door behind the counter into a back room, and smiling, stepped inside. 

“Sorry we’re— oh, hello Ignis.” A broad shouldered and attractive young man nodded at him, one of the apprentice pastry chefs, if Ignis remembered rightly. “She just went around back.” 

“Thank you.” As the young man started to stand up from his seat on the counter, Ignis added, “It’s quite alright, I’ll fetch her myself.”

Cindy was a product of his father’s second marriage, a sweet girl who looked a lot like her mother, save for her inquisitive green eyes, which were something of a Scientia family trait. A little guiltily, Ignis suspected her cleverness could also hold that claim. Whilst her mother was a friendly and not unkind woman, most of her thinking tended towards lace and local gossip. Cindy could only be mildly accused of the latter, but then working in the most popular bakery in town afforded you an ear for it. 

Making his way behind the counter and into the bustling, working body of the beast, Ignis quickly located her near the front, taking stock of various dry ingredients. He politely waited for her to finish. Sensing his presence, she looked up sharply from the clipboard in her hands.

“Ignis!” Beaming, she ran over to meet him, smacking his arm with the back of her clipboard. “You should’ve swung by earlier, I was holding cake for you!” 

Offering her a tired smile, he adjusted his glasses.

“I had to lock up and over ran a little. We aren’t due for another display change until next week, but I was in the mood to switch things up.” 

She rolled her eyes dramatically, folding her arms over her chest and cocking out a hip.

“You know what you need?” He looked at her, politely bemused. “A young lady. Someone to keep you rolling home when you’re tempted into working more than you should.” 

_Ah. This again._

“Perhaps. I’m afraid I’m rather dull, and I simply don’t have the time or finances to make for a particularly desirable match. Any poor girl attached to me would only end up miserable I’m afraid.” _For more reasons than you know_ , he thought. His complete lack of interest in the young women of the town had always been an easily avoidable line of questioning. He worked too much, he thought himself dull, and when he had been younger, he was far too shy. All were perfectly true and therefore believable reasons not to be stepping out with whichever poor unfortunate girl his sister and/or his stepmother were trying to push on him. There had even been one or two who had genuinely gotten their hopes up, for which he knew he’d feel eternally guilty.

For what it was worth, he supposed he’d be just as unwanted for any man he may ever harbour feelings towards. He just wasn’t meant for it, he supposed. 

“Oh shush.” Cindy gave him one of her specific smiles that meant she most definitely had not approved of his previous comment. “You’d make any woman proud; you’re such a hard worker. I know you’ll find someone, mark my words.” 

A touch agitated, he aimed to change the topic.

“What were you saving for me that I so ungraciously decided to miss out on?”

This seemed to distract her, as she brightened up almost immediately.

“We were serving chiffon cake today.” Well now he really was upset. 

“I’m hazarding a guess I still can’t get the recipe out of you?” A smile flickered into place across his lips. Cindy looked mischievously up at him.

“Nuh-uh. Trade secret, can’t go giving you that.” She wrinkled her nose at him as she’d always done ever since they were small, when they had first started this playful kind of back and forth.

“I will bribe you handsomely.” 

She scoffed.

“With what? Ma doesn’t pay you, I know that! Which is atrocious by the way; you’re being exploited.” She fixed him with another penetrating look, and he shifted awkwardly under it.

“I’m still technically—” but she cut him off.

“An apprentice? So am I, but I still get a wage. Ignis, you do all the work in that stuffy old shop whilst she turns a profit and uses it to go off…,” she stumbled, searching for a suitable word. “Gadding!” He couldn’t help himself, and he snorted with amusement. 

“ _Gadding…._ Perhaps.” He sighed. “I honestly don’t mind, Cindy. I don’t want for much.” He’d never been one for luxuries especially. There’d always been too much to do, too much to think about, and affording himself niceties had somehow never worked itself into the equation. Despite Cindy’s opinion that he might be better for one or two minor vices, he’d never quite managed to accumulate any beyond an easily rein-in-able sweet tooth. 

After a brief and mostly Cindy-led catch up, Ignis excused himself, promising to swing by earlier in the day so she could spoil him ‘as he deserved to be spoiled.’ Drawing his coat close around himself once more, he continued his journey back towards the hat shop. It wasn’t much, he conceded, but it was enough, and really, what more could he ask for?

The next day came bright and comparatively warm, so much so that Ignis decided to forgo his jacket when setting out that morning after breakfast. His walk across the courtyard was short-lived, however, and before long, he was in out of the crisp morning sunshine and back to trimming hats.

“You are going to have to make some frivolous choices,” he warned the wide-brimmed cream satin creation currently perched on the stand in front of him. Laying a perfect stem of wine silk Gladiolus against the band to gauge its effect, he added, “But it’ll all work out for the better, in the end.” 

By the time he’d made his selection and started working, his stepmother had arrived in all her bustling glory and was already deeply involved in a conversation with one of the sewing girls. Gossip, Ignis decided after listening in over the time it took him to attach a single rich stem. Apparently, there was some form of party taking place in the next month, at which, it was rumoured, several eligible young bachelors of considerable income would be in attendance. This was good news at least, he mused, as important parties tended to place a demand for fine hats. 

Ignis had finished up with the flowers and was just about to start adding some tasteful greenery when the old and rather careworn grandfather clock in the main body of the shop chimed noon in tandem with the clock tower. Carefully laying out his selected additions on his workbench, Ignis slipped from his stool and stretched, cat-like.

“I have a prior lunch arrangement!” his stepmother called from somewhere near the front of the shop. “Do be a dear and mind the counter whilst I’m gone, won’t you? I shall be back before closing time!” She didn’t wait for a response, as the merry tinkling of the bell announced her departure before Ignis could so much as speak.

“That’s quite alright Letitia,” he spoke into the quiet with a smile “so do I.” 

It was rare he left the shop at all during the day, so it was with a touch of trepidation that Ignis placed the little sign in the window declaring that Scientia and Sons would be open again for business that afternoon. Dutifully, he informed the sewing girls that he intended to take a long lunch, and that they too were to have the rest of the day off if they so wished. This suggestion was met with a mixture of pleasant relief and excitement, as well as much increased chatter. As the last of them took their leave, adjusting their bonnets and talking happily about today’s market, Ignis felt a weight lift from his shoulders that until now he hadn’t been aware he was carrying. It felt good to be the cause of joy in someone’s life, even if only in a small way.

Stepping out the back, he turned the key in the lock with a small spark of rebellion. It wasn’t a sensation that felt particularly at home in him, but the little thrill it provided was surprisingly enjoyable. Yes, he might well be able to get used to this, given practice. 

Market Chipping was bustling that day, something Ignis was no longer used to dealing with, spending most of his daylight hours engrossed in sewing and little else. It was almost exciting, weaving his way through happy chatter and other people’s business. Before he could arrive at the square that would lead him to Cindy’s bakery, however, he encountered a street that was altogether far too crowded for him to want to attempt. Peering down it, his brow furrowed in concern and trepidation, and he lingered at the street corner, unwilling to press forward into the hubbub. Had he always been this wary of crowds, he wondered, or was this simply a response to prolonged periods of relative isolation?

No, he couldn’t comfortably continue on this way. There was a back alley that looped around to another street, which would get him where he needed to be, he knew, but he’d only taken it a handful of times. Locating the shaded entrance not far into the street, where the crowd was thinner and less intimidating, he made a dash for it. 

The alley was narrow and twisting, the cobbles underfoot uneven and displaced enough that they required his attention to walk on in case he tripped. The light here was dim and grey, sheltered as it was from the sun that, this afternoon, had chosen to paint every colour it touched in their most vibrant shades. There were no glossy shopfronts here, only the more subdued functional elements and rear entrances that Ignis knew well enough from experience. 

Training his focus on a particularly jutting cobblestone to avoid it without slowing his pace, Ignis did not at first notice the small knot of men blocking his path as he turned the corner, and he almost bumped into one of them as a result. 

“Dreadfully sorry, excuse me.” He took a step back, frowning slightly as a note of wrongness sounded off in the back of his mind. 

They were behind a pub, he was pretty sure, although not one he was even vaguely familiar with. The way they were hovering out back in a group didn’t feel quite right though, especially as more than a few of them were in the crisp forest-green uniforms worn by the military. One of the taller men, the one he’d almost walked into, turned to glance at him over his shoulder. Ignis was only slightly relieved to see he didn’t look angry.

“That’s quite alright.” The man in question looked him up and down, gaze openly flitting over the line of his jaw and the bow of his lips. “Tell me, where are you in such a hurry to get to?”

Ignis tensed.

“Harlequin square. I’m meeting someone.” Whilst true, if he didn’t turn up, he doubted Cindy would think much of it. 

“I’m sorry, what’s your name?” The man turned round to face him bodily, leaning idly against a stack of barrels close to the open back door of the pub. Likewise, his small group of friends shifted subtly, not moving to block him off, per se, but it certainly wasn’t to make a clear path for him either. It wasn’t that they were being particularly threatening, it was simply a situation Ignis wanted out of. He knew it was likely someone was about to proposition him. 

“There you are.” A low rumble of a voice sounded behind him, and it was a wonder Ignis didn’t jump. “Been looking everywhere for you.” Still staring up at the soldier who had asked him his name, Ignis tensed as he felt an arm loop easily around him, his shoulder resting perfectly into a large cupped hand. The warmth of another body pressed in against his side, firm and solid.

Chancing a glance up at this new arrival, Ignis found himself looking at a handsome man, all easy smile and honey-amber eyes, so beautiful they felt dangerous. His long brown hair was shaved on the side, and a neatly kept beard enhanced an already stunning jaw line. His face was free of marks or blemishes, altogether far too perfect. Despite himself, Ignis couldn’t help but feel a little weak.

“I—” He tried to protest, although he was unsure exactly where that would land him, but quickly found he couldn’t. 

“Change of plans, decided I’m taking you somewhere else.” The stranger gave a polite, if laboured, nod towards the small knot of soldiers in the alleyway, who obediently sprang to attention, heels clicking together smartly as they parted to let them past. Their movement was janky and unnatural, their limbs too stiff and their jaws clamped shut despite the clear alarm in their eyes. Still with his arm wrapped around Ignis’ shoulders, the stranger swept the pair of them past the soldiers and onward up the alleyway.

When they were far enough away, he leaned in close to Ignis’ ear, so close Ignis could swear he felt the man’s facial hair brush at his cheek.

“Where’re you headed?” The deep murmur reverberated through him, melting any snappy retort he may have had.

“The bakery,” Ignis managed haltingly, unsure of what had come over him or why this strange man had decided to step in in the first place.

“Alright.” Straightening up, he pulled him a touch closer, squeezing his shoulder as he tilted his head to apparently examine the surrounding rooftops. “We’re taking a shortcut.” 

Ignis remained quiet, his mind moving quickly over a whole list of questions and demands. _‘What_ short cut exactly? How? That _was_ my short cut. Where are you taking me? Why are you holding me, and is it legal to walk around an unsuspecting town looking like _that_?’ None of which, frustratingly, seemed to make it to his mouth. 

Leaning in again, the stranger’s hold on him shifted from his shoulder to his ribs under his upper arm, palm flat and fingers splayed over the fabric of his shirt, his eyes still searching the line of the rooftops above them.

“Hate to tell you, but I’m being followed.” Ignis stiffened, both at the mildly more intimate contact, and this new information. He turned his head to look at the stranger and was surprised to find him looking directly at him, face close. There was a single red teardrop gem dangling from his left ear that Ignis hadn’t noticed before, and he would have stared at it if the man’s eyes weren’t quite so invitingly beautiful on their own. Had Ignis ever seen eyelashes to long and thick before? He wasn’t sure. “Sorry,” he added, voice low and attractive, “looks like you’re involved.”

“Involved?” Ignis wasn’t quite sure he understood, his heart quickening its pace inside his chest as dread prickled at his back. This was soon joined by a flash of incredulity as the stranger smiled at him warmly, a hint of slyness painting itself into the creases of his expression. 

“Just keep up.” 

The alleyway was longer than Ignis remembered as they kept on walking, speeding up into something that was almost a run without ever altering their long strides that forbid so much as a stumble. Surely it hadn’t take this long to cut through here before? He was sure of it, and yet they kept on walking. The alleyway curved away from them, the end never in sight and the cobblestones under their feet sweeping past them in a rush. Ignis chanced a look over his shoulder and immediately wished he hadn’t. 

“There are—” but he didn’t know what they were, and he was lost as to where to even begin to describe them. Thick, boneless approximations of human shapes, bulbous in body but drawn out and rope-like in limb, like taut, water-filled black rubber and stinking tar all at once. Worst of all, perhaps, was the way they moved, wildly, entirely without coordination, only purpose ─ as if the whole seething mass of them were being dragged along behind the stranger and himself inside a net at speed. It was like something out of a nightmare, made all the more dream-like by the fact that each individual creature could only be identified as such by a loud and amorphous suit such as a barber’s quartet might wear, although the fabric stretched and morphed unnaturally. 

“Who is following you?!” Ignis found he had to shout, the rush of the wind and the pounding of his heart drowning out anything less. He heard the stranger laugh, deep and joyful, as if he were enjoying this nightmare scenario.

There was a single, heart hammering moment where Ignis looked ahead of them once more, only to see a similar wall of scrambling unpleasantness filling up the narrow alley like foam, and the thought occurred to him that this was it.

_This is the most interesting thing that’s ever happened to me. It’s terrifying; I don’t understand it, and just my luck, it’s probably going to kill me before I can experience anything else like it._

Ignis screwed his eyes shut tight and held onto the stranger’s bicep for dear life, hands closing vice-like around the developed muscle and drawing himself in closer. Beside and around him, the stranger tensed like a spring; then suddenly it was as if the ground had dropped away from him. His legs no longer moved like a maddened metronome, free at last of whatever unnatural momentum had been binding them.

He was vaguely aware he’d made a noise, some strangled cry of distress as he opened his eyes to see rooftops sprawling out below him. He fumbled reflexively, catching the edge of his glasses just in time to push them back onto his face in case they slipped and tumbled down into the churning mass of gaudy, stripe-suited tar below them.

A feeling of weightlessness overtook him, as if he’d missed a step going down a flight of stairs, and had yet to connect with either panic or a solid surface. 

“Walk,” his companion directed, a wolfish laugh laced through the simple instruction like thread through a seam. 

“Walk?” Ignis wasn’t sure he could comprehend, his mind still spinning in an attempt to catch up. The muscular arm around him shifted it’s grip, and for one horrible moment, Ignis thought he was about to drop him. The hand at his ribs traveled up along his arm, past the elbow to grip gently around his forearm, pulling Ignis’ hand off of his shoulder and into his own. Another easy shift, and Ignis found both of his hands being held up and away from him, as if he was being aided in a test of balance. 

“S’easy, I’ll show you.” Even though they weren’t quite so close together now, he could still feel the low and inviting thrum of his voice through his chest when he spoke . 

Ignis looked down to see long legs stretching out in front of them in an almost exaggerated walking motion, his own legs folded up under him protectively. He was only momentarily distracted by the dark and embellished boot encasing the stranger’s shapely calf all the way up to the knee before he started to feel gravity taking interest in him again.

“C’mon, it’s easy. Promise.” Ignis felt him squeeze his hands reassuringly . 

Tentatively, inexplicably feeling like he was about to make a fool of himself, Ignis did as asked, extending a leg out in front of him in a step. He was surprised when he felt his foot connect with something, giving him the leverage needed to bring his next foot forward and repeat the process in sync with his companion. 

“Perfect. You’re a natural.” The compliment brought a smile to his lips, unbidden. It felt unreal, and in tandem he felt both entirely unlike himself, and the most like himself he had ever been. 

The chaotic panic of before having melted away, it left him feeling light and keen, if still reeling to some degree. Below them, the winding streets were nothing more than channels between bright roof tiles, lit crimson, ocean blue, and emerald green under the dazzling midday sun. It was a whole new perspective, so far removed from his stuffy little alcove and stuffy little life that it felt liberating. He laughed , clear and bright for the first time in what felt like years, heart soaring like a child again-- like back when carousels weren’t just flaking paint and machinery, but real whirling worlds of golden magic and colour. Suddenly, the phrase ‘walking on air’ had a whole new meaning, and it made him want to laugh again just for the joy of it. 

They passed over Harlequin square, a bustling throng of activity, bursting colour and sound, unfamiliar from this heightened vantage point in a way that’s thrilling and new. No one looked up to take notice of them, not even as they dipped momentarily to connect with the tip of the spire on the roof of the town hall, springing free of it in one fluid motion back out into the air. 

The attractive man keeping him airborne almost skipped his mind, even the intimate brush of a thumb across his knuckles not enough to pull him from his elation. Far too quickly, however, Ignis found himself being guided slowly down onto one of the upper balconies of the bakery. His feet connected with the polished wood as softly as a kiss, and he turned before the strange weightlessness left him to fully regard his beautiful stranger. 

He was dressed finely in a high collared vest of silvery grey and deep crimson satin that hugged close to his figure. Loose white sleeves billowed out around his arms, anchored at his wrists by what looked to be heavy gold bangles. A number of stone-studded rings on his fingers glittered in the dazzling sun to match the finery on his tall, dark boots. His shoulders were broad, his waist subtly tapered to a strong set of hips and thighs, shown off through close-fitting black pants, which made Ignis feel the need to swallow reflexively. _Gorgeous isn’t the word_. 

His foot rested delicately on the edge of the railing, one of Ignis’ hands still resting in his own, his other arm outstretched in midair, and he bowed subtly. 

“Stay put for a while. I’ll shake ‘em off, and you should be safe.” His eyes burned bright with a golden intensity, his smirk-like smile dancing across them like reflections from a pool. 

“Of course,” Ignis responded breathlessly. He was surprised he even managed to get the words out at all, still riding some unknowable high.

“ _That’s my man._ ” The smile broadened into a wolfish grin as Ignis’ hand finally slipped from his own, and he pushed off from the railing to fall effortlessly down into the square and out of sight. 

Ignis rushed forward, hands catching at the polished wood of the rail as he leant out and over it, searching for him in the crowd, but to no avail. His heart was racing and his mind felt both clouded and crystal clear all at once, as if until this moment he’d been living with his eyes shut tight, and the sudden rush of light and colour had left him dazed. 

It took him a moment to collect himself on the balcony, getting a hold of his racing thoughts and fluttering pulse as best he could as he adjusted himself and his appearance. He’d never encountered a wizard before. There was no doubt in his mind that he had just met one, though. The stranger’s parting phrase ‘ _That’s my man_ ’ rang through him again, and he was unable to contain the soft gasp and fluttering sensation of excitement that threatened to undo all of his previous work in collecting himself. 

If he were in the mood to properly get a handle on himself, he would berate this kind of response, giving himself a sharp reminder that he was not some lovesick teenager in May. He wasn’t though, and found that, at least in the present moment, he didn’t care. 

After a further five minutes on the balcony, he decided he wasn’t getting much calmer any time soon, and began the slightly awkward process of making his way downstairs from the apprentice quarters. He found Cindy faster than expected at the bottom of the stairwell, being handed a small blue box wrapped in white ribbon by one of the counter girls. 

“He left it for you with a note,” she said . 

“The boy in the cloak? Again?” Cindy took the box thoughtfully, her expression downturned as she heaved a sigh. 

“Second time this month. Cindy, you’ve got to do something about it; we’re all dying to know who he is.” A thought crossed her mind, and she gasped. “You don’t think he’s the Wizard Amicitia, do you? Oh Cindy—” Her excitement was cut short as Cindy laughed, pleasant and clear.

“If the Wizard Amicitia were trying to woo me, I’d hope I’d know! He’s just shy, Martha, that’s all.” Tucking the little box away in the front pocket of her apron, Cindy shook her head and smiled.

“You do seem to draw them….” The girl, Martha, bit back a smile and bobbed on the spot as she looked Cindy up and down before turning away, giggling. Her ponytail whipped behind her as she pushed her way back out into the shop. 

“I do, that.” Cindy seemed to deflate a little on the spot, brushing down her apron in a lacklustre fashion. 

Ignis took the opportunity to clear his throat awkwardly from the stairs. Starting, Cindy turned around to face him in a flurry of skirts and surprise.

“Oh! Ignis! You startled me!” Her initial shock passing as quickly as it came, she narrowed her eyes at him in a shrewd look. “What were you doing up those stairs?” There was a hint of slyness to the accusation, as if she had discovered a scandal that she’d be more than happy to lend her full endorsement to.

“I’m not sure you’ll believe me, but I think I’m going to have to try.” Descending the last few polished steps to the crisp terracotta tiles, Ignis did his best to offer her an open smile.

After loudly announcing her lunch break and charming her way into not one, but _three_ free eclairs, Cindy pulled her brother out the back of the bakery and into the large clear courtyard where they took their daily deliveries. Ushering him to take a seat on an empty crate, she perched next to him and listened thoughtfully as he tried his best to recount the events of that afternoon.

Although he himself still felt wondrously alive, Cindy did not apparently share in his newfound perspective. 

“What if that was Wizard Amicitia?” she hissed, leaning forward over her lap, hands pressed anxiously to her knees. “Ignis you could’ve been in danger! Sounds like you _were_ in danger from something.” 

A touch taken aback, Ignis lowered what was left of his eclair to give her a blank look.

“I don’t see how it could have been him, Cindy. Even if it was, he only eats the hearts of young _women_. I’m hardly at risk.”

She did not look convinced. 

“Ignis—” she started up again, shifting her skirts in concern. “Be careful out there. I’d hate it if something were to happen to you.” 

Abandoning his eclair entirely, he reached out to place a reassuring hand on her arm.

“I’ll be fine, not to worry. I’ll be going straight home after I leave.” After all, where else would he be going, regardless of any instructions? Still Cindy did not look wholly satisfied, but the purse of her lips informed him that she had reached the conclusion that not much more could be done to ensure his safety. 

“Well, just mind that you do.” The words came out stiffly after an even stiffer pause, her disgruntlement as blatant as her dissatisfaction. 

When he did eventually leave the sugary-pastel warmth of the bakery, he did so without much trepidation. The streets were quieter now, the midday holiday bussel having run its course through the bright little town, leaving it hollowed out and yawning in the early evening sun. He felt a stitch of guilt punch through his chest as his thoughts wandered back to the indulgent little sign Letitia must have returned to-- the shop empty and no doubt musting over with lack of business. The whole venture had been selfish, ultimately landing him in nothing but trouble as he should have known it would.

The bright, dancing joy of sun and colour and adrenaline had seemingly lost its lustre already, like a dream, insubstantial and fleeting. He knew who he was and he knew where he belonged; pretending anything different was fanciful and ultimately pointless. 

The sun had properly begun to set by the time he made it home, the journey having been uneventful and entirely free of both globular peril and devastatingly attractive wizards. What his arrival held however, was the continued presence of the shameful little sign in the front window.

_‘Scientia and Sons will be open for business after a short break’_

He sighed. At least this way, not even Letitia could call him out on his mistake. He doubted she’d even notice the lost afternoon of business. 

As he let himself back in and locked the door behind him (it already being so close to closing time as to make very little difference if he simply called it a loss and closed up early), some of Cindy’s recent concerns bubbled up to the forefront of his mind. ‘Gadding.’ He’d made light of it the night before, but now the word seemed to buzz around him like an irate bluebottle. Maybe Cindy was right, perhaps he was being exploited. The thought settled over him uneasily, not comfortable with the notion that his stepmother was purposefully using him, nor the idea that he’d simply rolled over and let it happen. 

Then again, he supposed his resolve had never truly been tested, and any feeling of having much by way of willpower or strength was most likely illusionary, or exaggerated at best. Dejectedly, he grabbed the broom and started in on his nightly sweep of the shop.

‘Mouse,’ a spiteful little voice in the back of his brain provided, timid and grey, and prone to traps.

“Well,” he admitted to a lace-trimmed navy pillbox, “I suppose I always did have a weakness for cats.” 

The sun had well and truly set by the time he was finished, the last remaining remnants of his work lit only by a handful of gas lamps on low, keeping the shop in a hazy yellow slumber. He had only just finished tidying up his workspace when the cheerful little bell above the front door rang out. He could have sworn he’d locked that.

Coming out into the shop front proper, Ignis was a touch bemused to find a tall and oddly dressed gentleman inspecting some of his finer work at one of the displays. He was imposingly tall, although something about the way he was proportioned made it seem as if he were simply scaled slightly too large for his surroundings, like a doll in the wrong sized dollhouse. His clothing was constructed of fine fabrics, but none of it seemed to follow any fashion or trend Ignis was currently aware of— a layered extravaganza of purposefully unique pieces, compiled into a whole that was impossible to process without close inspection.

“Regrettably, we closed over half an hour ago, my apologies, sir.” Although his customer service smile was wearing a little thin after his full and confusing day, Ignis managed more than serviceable politeness. For a moment, it was unclear whether he’d been heard or not, as the extravagant stranger lifted a wide-brimmed statement piece from its stand to closer examine its cascade of magenta plumes and gilded star-shaped beads. “Sir,” Ignis tried again. 

“Shhh.” The stranger held up a finger in a shushing motion, never looking away from the hat in his other hand, and inexplicably, Ignis found he was no longer able to make a sound. “This really is fine beadwork.” He sighed, laying the hat back carefully on its stand before turning round to face Ignis. His features were handsome in a roguish kind of way, artfully scruffy behind a stubbly beard and flyaway hair that looked almost plum coloured in the dim light, shaded further by a once-fine silk fedora. “A shame, really. Such a waste…, but then again, he is rather known for his trail of carnage.” 

Ignis felt utterly at sea, rooted to the spot and unable to speak despite his racing thoughts and mounting fear. He didn’t have a clue what the man was talking about. 

The stranger flashed him a wide and crooked grin, chuckling darkly as he regarded Ignis casually. 

“He never could resist a pretty face. No…. No, that simply won’t do,” he crooned. With one wide, sweeping open-palmed gesture, Ignis felt himself being released from whatever spell the stranger had been holding him under. Ignis’ blood ran cold, his entire body felt suddenly numb and at odds with his motion, and he found himself stumbling forward into the counter, having to brace against it for support. His mind swam dizzyingly, as if he’d been twirling in circles for hours before abruptly coming to a stop. 

“There,” the purring, self-satisfied voice was all he could process clearly. “That should do nicely.” He laughed again, a deep humming noise of satisfaction emanating deep from within his chest. Turning on his heel, the stranger waved back at him casually over his shoulder as he swanned his way back toward the entrance.

“One should always pick their battles in life. You chose poorly, a little mouse such as yourself trying to pit himself up against the Witch of the Wastes,” he scoffed. “Foolish, but hardly your fault. Still, lessons must be learned. Give Amicitia my regards, and tell him _Izunia_ sent you. Oh—” he stopped in the doorway, turning back to look at the crumpled form of Ignis braced against the counter in the dim light. Somehow his smile didn’t seem altogether human, something dark and other glittering at the edges, like a blade in ink. “Except you can’t, can you? Good luck, the lip lock on this one is _strong_.” 

The familiar tinkling of the bell above the door seemed wrong in this new, spinning version of the world—an innocent and bright little noise, lost in a world of stretched out shadows and perspective tricks. The room seemed to shudder and shake, as if exhaling a spluttering breath as the Witch made his exit. Afterwards, things seemed to shift and sigh back into their familiar shapes and forms; the lights seemed brighter, the shadows no longer threatening.

Ignis felt himself sag against the counter, inexplicably breathless. His arms shook underneath him as he tried to make sense of what had just transpired. Hanging his head, he focused first on breathing, seeking to restore a calm and regulated rhythm through his lungs to seep through into the rest of his being. 

There were hands on the counter either side of him. He froze, unsure how long they’d been there or who they belonged to. They remained still, palms not quite flat against the counter, thin with age, the skin clinging to bone and tendon alike—as dust-laden cobwebs might slacken and sag over attic beams. It wasn’t until the fingers of the left hand tensed and curled into the palm that he realised with a sickening lurch that they were _his_ hands. He felt oddly seasick, as if he had been tossed around amidst a tempest sea with nothing but a thin raft between himself and the churning ocean.

He couldn’t comprehend it. Staggeringly, he made his way to the folding mirror, partially obscured by the jewel-like clutter of summer hats he’d put out on display only last week. Whether his legs had suddenly become unusable or he was simply trembling too hard to sustain his own urgent movement, he was forced to zigzag across the shop from table to table, knocking over numerous hours of tedious investment as he sent hats and wooden display busts tumbling to the floor indiscriminately. In his periphery, they seemed like giant glittering beetles, skittering around his feet in an anxious swarm as they bounced and rolled amidst the chaos. 

When he reached the mirror, he had to brace his hands against the richly stained wood of the end table it stood on as he leant forward tremulously. His reflection stared back at him over his glasses, and his carefully styled hair was mussed and starting to fall into his eyes. A strange kind of calm fell over him as he studied the face before him, although at the back of his mind, he was acutely aware this was only the eye of the storm for now. His sharp sea-green eyes were still more or less the same, perhaps a little dulled, as coloured glass dulls under a layer of dust. Similarly, the familiar angles of his face remained recognisable, but the rest of it…. His hair was grey like an overcast sky, his skin papery and pale, wrinkle etched with a distinct lack of elasticity. A stray observation made fleeting contact with whatever part of his brain was still capable of fully worded thought, and dumbly, Ignis found himself feeling relieved that at least he wasn’t thinning on top. _A silver lining_. His mouth flickered feebly at the unspoken pun, but it didn’t last.

“Go to bed.” There was a crackle to his voice that hadn’t been there before. “Go to bed, Ignis.” He shook his head experimentally before sliding his glasses back up his nose and attempting to stand up straight. That, as it turned out, was more of an undertaking than he’d expected. During however long he’d been hunched over at the mirror, his back had decided to lock up into position, his bones having settled into a crone-like formation and found a false kind of ache-lined comfort there. Now however, they had nothing but sharp complaint at being forced back into their regular alignment. Something crunched audibly, and Ignis winced. 

“Go to bed,” he told his reflection, reasonably. “And by morning, this will all have dissipated into fancy.” Feeling dazed, he made his way unsteadily through the hat-strewn carnage of the shop front to the door that lead out into the courtyard and to house beyond. Although he was no longer quite so unsteady, Ignis was still reduced to more of a hobble than his usual long-legged stride. Try as he might, his current situation became increasingly difficult to keep out of his mind, what with every creak and ache of his back and joints in tandem with his slowed pace.

The silence of the house felt alien and oppressive, like a heavy curtain of invisible judgement, watching him, as if he were an intruder in his own home. This must be how burglars felt, stepping quietly into lives that weren’t theres, catching glimpses of personality and past, held in slumbering stasis until their owner returned to breathe life back into the room. The thought sat fat and frog-like on his consciousness even as he shuffled cautiously into his own dark bedroom, half expecting to find someone else curled up asleep under his age old quilt. Fortunately, the room remained empty but for himself, and with a degree of numbness, Ignis got himself changed and under the covers. Staring blankly into the dark, he waited patiently for sleep to claim him, all the while trying to process the day’s events through the constant ringing inside his head.

He was awoken the next morning by the soft thud of shoes on old wood floors, and he knew before she even reached the door that it was Letitia. Squeezing his eyes shut protectively, he drew the blanket closer around himself, not wanting to face the oncoming lace frilled panic he was sure was coming. A frantic pounding on his door confirmed his fears.

“Ignis? Ignis! Ignis, someone broke into the shop last night. Oh it’s frightful! I’m in such a state— Are you alright dear? It’s so unlike you to still be in bed this late—” His stepmother’s voice was muffled through his bedroom door, but her flustered panic was impossible to miss. With a shard of annoyance he noted his own personal wellbeing had come second to that of the shop, which, if she’d bothered to check their stock against the books, along with the contents of the cash register, she would have discovered there had been no robbery. 

“No, actually.” The pronounced dry, papery quality to his voice still felt odd, as if he were forever on the verge of clearing his throat, but it no longer shocked him. His usual pressed politeness that he usually wheeled into service with his stepmother also seemed to have evaporated, and instead he left his tone unguarded, letting his irritation peek into the conversation like a suspicious neighbour through net curtains. Either Letitia was unbothered by this tonal shift or was in too much of a flap to notice it, as no repercussions seemed to be coming forthwith. “I took ill yesterday afternoon, I must’ve slept through the entire ordeal.” 

“Oh—oh Ignis this is so frightening! It’s probably just as well you were in bed, or else I dread to think what might have happened to you!” _A good deal less_ , he thought with a bitter little twist.

To his mild alarm, the white and blue ceramic of the doorknob started to turn, the latch clicking cautiously as it was slowly withdrawn. 

“No, don’t come in— I’d hate for you to fall ill with the same bug and miss your social appointments.” The door stopped in its tracks, not so much as an inch of gap visible between door and frame. _Got you._ The sharp note of satisfaction was almost shocking to experience. Would he have dared to do that yesterday? He didn’t think he would have, not without feeling entirely guilty, at least. It wasn’t as if he didn’t know Letitia’s weak points, he’d just never put pressure on them to sway a situation before. 

“You do sound absolutely frightful….” The fluttery panic was gone from her tone to be replaced by thoughtful consideration. “Are you sure you’ll be alright? I can have one of the girls round to—”

“No, no it’s quite alright—” he cut over her insistently. Although he could technically get out and away without having to go near the shop itself, he’d rather not risk having anyone else around who could potentially catch sight of him. “I’m sure I can manage. Enjoy your day Letitia, I’ll take care of things.” 

With a touch of weighty hesitation, she conceded.

“Well all right, but don’t work yourself too hard, you hear?” 

“I promise; the most I’ll do is go for a little stroll.” This seemed enough to sate her, and although she hovered in the hall for a few conflicted moments more, she eventually wished him farewell and made her way back downstairs and off into the rest of her life.

Ignis lay still for a few minutes, listening intently to make sure she really had taken her leave before creaking into an upright position. It was an effort, although not so much that it didn’t bear facing, but nevertheless, sitting up today was a lot more demanding than sitting up the day before had been. Carefully placing his socked feet on the floor as if testing his own weight, he let out a sigh and regarded his room thoughtfully. For quite possibly the first time in his life he felt the dull creep of freedom steal over him, structureless and vague. 

He couldn’t stay here, that much was for certain. That way, tense explanations lay, and worse. There was no way he could possibly look at Cindy or Letitia again, not like this. Even worse than that, he realised, was the likelihood that even if he did stay to face them in his new condition, he might still end up living out the rest of his undoubtedly numbered days sewing hats until he gave out from prematurely aged boredom right at his workbench. No, he wasn’t going to take this lying down. 

As if trying to prove his point physically, he stood up, shakily at first, but after a few hobbling steps, he seemed to shake off the worst of the dust-clogged feeling. Determinedly, he got dressed, pulling on a pair of grey slacks, a blue and white striped shirt with tan suspenders, and a plain dark blue waistcoat over the top. Fastening the last button on his waistcoat, he toyed with it a moment while staring at the meager contents of his wardrobe, and after a moment’s thought, pulled out two more changes of clothes. Folding them idly, he piled them neatly on the already made bed, adding a few pairs of underwear and rolled up pair of socks or two to the small pile. 

It didn’t look like much, but maybe that was the point. After a moment’s deliberation, he styled his hair in the tiny square mirror near the foot of his bed, throwing the necessary items into his makeshift bundle as soon as he was done with them.

“There,” he addressed his reflection “That’s not so bad. At the very least, your clothes finally suit you.”

Digging out an old battered case that had once belonged to his father, he loaded up his small pile of belongings and clicked the case shut with a satisfying snap. 

After making his way downstairs (cautiously, in case Letitia had somehow sneaked back into the house whilst he was preparing himself), he entered the familiar friendliness of the terracotta tiled kitchen. Placing his belongings on the kitchen table with some care, he set about preparing food to take with him, opting to skip breakfast for the sake of expediency. 

His mind wandered as he waited for the two eggs he’d set to boil to reach completion. Yesterday had started out, well, not wholly usual, but certainly nothing extraordinary. How plans to meet his sister for a not unprecedented lunch arrangement had turned into this—this whatever it was, was entirely beyond him. In some ways, he guessed, it was an answer to the wish he’d never dared give words to, but that was a dangerous and uncomfortable thought. 

Whatever new path this had set him on temporarily, he was sure he didn’t want it. So then, the easiest way to go back to how things were supposed to be was to break the curse, and he knew full well that all curses _could_ be broken. No matter how complicated or nasty they were, there was always a way to undo the knot. Every school child knew that. He needed magical assistance, that much was obvious, but there were no witches or wizards round here, not that would help, at least. An assured and cocky smirk surfaced in his mind like an image through ink. Even through memory, those burning amber eyes were dangerously enthralling. There was at least one helpful wizard in these parts then, but how to find him?

The little clockwork timer went off, the signal that his eggs were done, and the thought spun away from him as he busied his hands. 

Lunch safely stowed in the pocket of his drab grey coat, Ignis set off towards the edge of town, not wholly certain of where he was going, only that it wasn’t here. It wasn’t until his brown leather shoes hit the dry dusty dirt of the road leading out of Market Chipping into the the surrounding farmlands and the wastes beyond that the thought occurred to him, staring up at the green expanse of the hills ahead of him, wreathed in fog and melancholy. But of course, he did know where there was a wizards could be found, didn’t he? 

He’d been fortunate enough to hitch a ride through most of the surrounding farmland on the back of a wagon full of hens, who clucked and fussed comfortingly for the duration. The sun had felt good beating down on him from above, the heat seeming to ease the complaints he’d been building up in his joints. Still, he wasn’t doing too badly, he reckoned, having made it this far on foot alone without any major incident, even if the rest had been much needed. 

When it had been time for him to get off the cart and make his own way deeper into the wastes, the driver had pulled him aside with concern etched into the lines of his sun-worn face. 

“Listen, old man, you’re not serious about wandering off into the wastes on your own, are you?”

Ignis batted him off good naturedly, repeating the same fabricated lie about looking for his son that he’d spun the man when he’d first accepted the lift. Although he seemed far from convinced about the odds of success on this supposed mission, the man let Ignis go and wished him somewhat dubious luck. 

To start with, the journey was almost amicable. The weather was beautiful, the sun bright and warm, but with enough of a breeze present to alleviate any unpleasant heat. The thick fog of the morning had thinned and dissipated, although as always on the wastes, the threat of it lurked low and damp in the grass. 

Ignis discovered he had a new found appreciation for the sun, how it warmed his joints like butter, making the uphill hike a touch smoother than his previously stiff and janky progress. Had it always had such a pleasant ambient feeling of soaking in through his skin and clothes like that? He wasn’t sure. Maybe he really had been cooped up in that tiny sewing room for too long─ north facing, with thick bottle-bottomed glass windows through which grey light was filtered still further by the ever present grime the nearby railway seemed to generate. From out here, up high in the wastes, with nothing but a simple goal and the sunlight, it all seemed very far away indeed. A different life.

As the day progressed, however, the sun crept back under a thick cover of clouds, leaving the sky a bleak grey blanket, soft but cold. The ever present mists of the wastes, now without the sun’s fierce glare to keep them sulking low and broody in the grass, rose up and crept their way back across the landscape. They reached out to Ignis too, the ghostly tendrils plucked at his bones with a tender chill like a sad embrace, slowing him considerably as it wove the ache of old age back into his joints. 

Eventually he was forced to stop, half easing half dropping himself down onto a small boulder to sit and rest. With the loss of the sun, so too had his sense of time entirely escaped him. He had a sneaking suspicion that up here, time probably didn’t work quite the way it should, so different was it from the familiar cobbles and business hours of home. The wastes were wild, untamed, and beholden to no-one’s rules, least of all fussy little shop-keeps and their irrelevant ideas about appropriate hours and lunch times. He considered this, drinking in the dramatic beauty of the mist-shrouded hills as he did so, and in light of his thoughts, dove into his coat pocket to help himself to some of his carefully prepared food. Appropriate lunchtimes be damned, there was certainly no one up here to care. Except perhaps wizards, or at least, he hoped so. Did wizards eat lunch? It seemed a little too ordinary for them, at least to Ignis.

Halfway through the process of carefully peeling the shell off of a hard boiled egg, one of the myriad of complaints his body had been making for the past hour shot up in urgency. A pain lanced through the joint of his left hip, bone-deep and sharp, like a flat stone skipping across the surface of a lake, leaving a persistent ache in it’s dispersing ripples like cloudy flour. Ignis pressed his free hand to the joint with a wince and a grunt, his fingers curling to dig into the softer area below the bone, as if the pressure might somehow nullify the pain. It did not. He must be overdoing it, unused to the limitations of this prematurely creaking form. 

“I should have thought to bring a cane.” He groused to the wastes at large. A flurry of wind whipped at the grass and heathers around his resting spot, putting him in mind of the artful little shrugs he’d seen the young women they sold to perform─ the one that indicated the distinct idea that whatever it was you were trying to impart to them, it wasn’t their problem. 

As the ache dulled to something more or less bearable, Ignis returned to his rather meager lunch, picking off the remainder of the shell and inspecting it before letting his attention slide once again. Taking a bite, he chewed thoughtfully as his eyes roamed the immediate landscape. Up close, a lot of the staggering beauty of the wastes was coarse and unfriendly, populated by flora used to fighting tooth and nail for the right to remain upright, and therefore beligerently resilient to anybody attempting to trudge through it uphill. 

A squat and angry shrub glared down at him from its spot further up the hillside, clinging to the rock-spotted soil with it’s thick dark roots like fingernails. It was almost big enough to conceal a fully grown man, Ignis mused, although only in theory, its branches growing tightly together to form a dense mass of dry and unyielding twigs. A gnarled embrace for anything it so chose to take a hold of. That was when he spotted it, the thick wooden shaft of a pole, weather worn and unmistakably manmade, sticking up out of the side like the mast of a sunken ship. 

Hardly a fashion statement, but it’d make for a serviceable cane at a pinch.

Carefully, so as not to let the landscape know he’d spotted anything untoward, Ignis finished his egg. He stood up, dusting away imaginary pieces of eggshell as he did so, and stretched before picking up his case and proceeding in his previous direction up the hill. Ambling up beside the shrub, he let his eyes fall casually on the pole in front of him, sticking up out of the thing at approximately waist height. Placing a gloved hand on it almost delicately, he took a moment to steel himself for the incoming bout of physical exertion, gripped it firmly with both hands, braced himself, then gave a considerable heave.

It resisted. 

Presumably, he reasoned, the hand grip must be tangled or somehow otherwise prevented from being pulled free. Still, he would not remain undefeated, as another chance like that was unlikely to present itself, especially as he continued on further and further away from respectable civilisation. He gave the thing a few experimental twists and tugs, trying to assess exactly where and how it was stuck. It wasn’t especially heavy so much as it appeared to be awkward. Unrelentingly, he pulled and shook at the thing with all the strength that still belonged to him, not that that had been something he’d had in particular abundance to start with. Dexterity? Yes, but brute force had never been amongst his predominantly hat-based skillset.

With one almighty last leavering push, the thing sprung free, bringing down a rain of dead and spiny shrub-based shrapnel with it. A face rose up through the air, grotesque and twisted, the skin green tinged and shrivelled, its lipless mouth open in a death-grimace, as if peeled back from the alarmingly human teeth. Startled, Ignis made to move backwards at speed, half tripping over his case as he remembered its presence only just in time to step over it. 

Internal alarm bells still ringing with panic against the stampeding rhythm of his heart, Ignis caught hold of a single fly-away thought as it passed him in the adrenaline fuelled confusion.

“It’s a scarecrow.” He choked out, forcing himself not to gasp for air and instead breath deeply. “That’s all it is.” 

The scarecrow stood propped against the shrub at an angle that made the tatty old jacket slung across its crossbeam crumple and hang in mockery of an apologetic shrug. It was a good scarecrow, solidly constructed from two weathered but sturdy posts, braced together under an abnormal amount of layers for something intended for such a simple task. Most of the homegrown variety that Ignis was passingly familiar with from outside Market Chipping were simple affairs─ little more than sacking and rope, perhaps an old cow bell thrown in if the farmer could afford to let one go, or the crows were particularly bad that year. This one was positively extravagant by comparison, and Ignis wondered how it had gotten here. The faded fabric of a once black waistcoat fluttered idly under the fingertips of the breeze, as the ragged legs of it’s trousers clung to the uneven form of the shrub beneath it. 

Its head was in fact nothing more than a grotesquely carved turnip, its features simple, but disquieting and lacking any kind of nose. However, the teeth embedded in the hollow of its mouth remained unpleasantly real looking. A black shirt with a rumpled ascot tucked under the collar hung empty beneath the waistcoat, bunching and billowing awkwardly with no body to shape it. The ends of the crossbeam ended similarly in limp, discoloured gloves, secured to the post by hastily placed nails which had long since stained the fabric with rust.

There was no way he could utilise the thing as a cane or a staff of some sort, he realised. The crossbeam made it too awkward and heavy to be of any real use to him, and the post itself was too solid to snap. With a sigh, he did his best to straighten himself up and continue his awkward shuffle up the hillside unassisted. As he passed it, he paused to stare up into its carved and shrunken features. Even though it was an inanimate object, Ignis had the unpleasant feeling that it was looking right back at him with exactly the same amount of scrutiny. 

“What I need is a cane, and a cane you most certainly are not. I should have left you in the undergrowth for all the effort you demanded.” Ignis heaved a sigh, rolling his shoulders in the vain hope that it might shift the aching tension that was already starting to build between them. “You know, you look regrettably similar to an illustration I once saw of a shrunken head.” 

The collar of the scarecrow’s shirt caught the wind, flipping up to flap against its vegetable features in polite interest. 

“Only,” Ignis continued “They weren’t carved from turnips. Still, you are rather frightful, although in your line of work I would consider that a boon.” Unsurprisingly, the scarecrow did not respond.

Giving the thing a last dubious once over, Ignis set his shoulders against the cold and continued on, stooped against the wind.

He’d been walking perhaps ten minutes when a peculiar rhythmic sound caught his attention─ the soft ‘thomp, thomp’ of something hard hitting the earth, like a leather mallet against a tent peg. Curious as to who, other than himself, would be mad enough to attempt camping up in the wastes, Ignis looked up from the thin and treacherous shepherd’s path beneath his feet. As the sound drew closer, Ignis turned. Bounding in impossible leaps up the hillside was the scarecrow, the flat base of it’s post hitting the earthen path hard enough to kick up a small cloud of dust and plant debris with every impact. 

For a moment Ignis’ brain rejected what his eyes were telling him. Scarecrows couldn’t move of their own volition─ they had no joints to bend, no method of propulsion besides perhaps accidentally catching the wind like a sail and getting swept away. That wasn’t what was happening here though. This one was moving very purposefully towards him, against the wind and at speed, it’s limp gloves and empty trouser legs flapping uncontrollably in an attempt to trail behind it. 

If it hadn’t been for the events of yesterday, it would have been the strangest thing Ignis had ever seen, and quite possibly would have scared him more than it did. As it was, he stood his ground, waiting for it to catch up as he attempted to make sense of things. That was when he noticed it. Hanging over the scarecrow’s left wrist, swinging wildly with every improbable leap, was a walking stick. 

When it was within a few feet of him, it came to a wobbling halt, bouncing on the spot a couple of times to get its balance. It stood there creaking in the wind, unsupported and patient. Cautiously, Ignis reached forward to take the cane from its limp-gloved wrist. 

“Thank you.” He told it. The cane in his hands was a fine one, nicked and scuffed as any second hand possession might be, but not enough to mar it. The wood was a polished chocolate colour, mottled and glossy against the burnished brass of the head, molded to look like a finely detailed wing, outstretched and curved to fit the palm. It really was a beautiful thing, and after testing his weight against it a couple of times, perfectly sized for him. “ _Thank you._ ” Ignis told the scarecrow again, more earnestly this time, a good deal of the fear having slipped away from him. 

It wobbled and creaked in the wind, its crossbeam swaying in a way that could be interpreted as pleased. 

As Ignis continued to walk, a process eased more than he would have thought by the simple addition of the walking stick, the scarecrow didn’t show any signs of leaving. Ignis had stopped twice more, once to eat a slice of bread and break off a corner of his precious block of cheese, and once to rather awkwardly relieve himself behind a thicket of brambles. Both times the scarecrow had stopped and stood as a somewhat worrying sentinel, waiting for him to continue before following at a respectful distance behind him. 

Upon reaching the top of the hill, Ignis allowed himself yet another break in which to catch his breath, bracing himself against his cane as he stared out over the thick soup of fog which obscured the valley below. The sun was beginning to set now, already low and fat in the sky, like the rich golden yolk of an egg. Ignis was surprised when instead of staying a healthy distance behind him, his new silent companion sprung up to stand beside him. It tilted in the increased strength of the wind with nothing around it to act as a buffer, save for Ignis himself, swaying back and forth in order to stay upright.

As the setting sun painted it in honey gold light, Ignis felt a creeping uneasiness scratch at the back of his mind. As harmless and as helpful this scarecrow seemed to be, he wasn’t sure he wanted to spend a night on the wastes under its disconcerting watch. Old stories of wisps and similar otherworldly creatures resurfaced in his mind from his childhood─ old wives tales most of them, but after everything he’d witnessed lately, he couldn’t be certain of anything any more. Maybe it did want to eat his soul after all, but was simply waiting for him to be an easier target.

“I need somewhere to stay.” He looked up at the scarecrow ponderously. Asking had worked before, perhaps it would again. It bounced on the spot, turning round to face him with its lopsided features, every scrap of fabric it possessed fluttering in the wind as if possessed. “I don’t suppose you could find anywhere suitable?” It was impossible to keep the hopeful edge out of his voice. A hard night on the hillside was something he’d rather avoid, especially at his age.

For a moment it simply stared at him. Just as Ignis was starting to wonder if the thing had somehow become inanimate once more, it hopped once, then pivoted on the spot and bounded off down into the valley at speed, the fog swallowing it quickly. 

If it had intended Ignis to follow it, he didn’t know, and at that speed in such dense fog he knew wiser than to try and chase after it now.

“Well,” He sighed. “It was worth the attempt, at least.” 

Ignis was wise enough not to attempt navigating the fog. Even growing up in town, you heard stories and received enough warnings about the wastes and their numerous perills to stay relatively safe. Or if not safe, then at least to save you from a truly embarrassing death. With little choice left, Ignis descended a few safe yards into the valley and kept walking along the ridge of the hill, the last few dregs of setting sun at his back to preserve his vision. Every so often he glanced to his right, peering down into the fog in hopes of spotting a light, or perhaps the dark shape of a shepherd’s hut that he could take shelter in for the night. 

As the last ambient whispers of light began to drain from the sky in a cocktail of deep orange and broody purples, Ignis came to the unhappy conclusion that he couldn’t keep going. No suitable shelter was going to appear at the last minute to save him from the rapidly descending chill which was already curling its needle like fingers into his bones. His feet came to a stop, dark grass shrouding his shoes in premature night as the light ebbed its last, almost vanished entirely. He felt frustrated, idiotic even for thinking this might work. He should have stayed at home, found some way to explain what had happened and make the best of it, he would have made do. He was good at making do. Flouncing off like this on some mad expedition into the wastes with no plan, and little idea what he was looking for─ it was foolish. Damnably foolish.

Ignis clenched his jaw and stared down at the dark shape of his shoes, scuffed and dull and caked in mud. Around him, the wind dropped, and the world went oddly silent, as if to further isolate him in his mistake. 

_Thomp, thomp, thomp─_

The sound was faint, but approaching rapidly. _Oh good,_ he thought, _It’s come back to consume me_. 

_Thomp thomp thomp thomp─!_

Turning, his body feeling so much more wretched and dysfunctional than before, Ignis looked up from his misery in time to see the scarecrow approaching behind him from out of the fog. Something about the way it wasn’t slowing down seemed to convey a sense of urgency, or perhaps enthusiasm. Either way, Ignis was prepared to let whatever happened next happen. At least if it consumed him he wouldn’t be able to feel the cold any more.

The scarecrow caught up to him, but instead of stopping, continued on past him for a few yards before pivoting back to face him, bouncing on the spot in a frantic fashion that threatened to see it fall. As Ignis opened his mouth to yell something unpleasant at it, another, much bigger sound caught his attention. The hiss of suffering steam rose from the valley to his right, followed by a low groan of metallic discontent─ the kind of noise Ignis would imagine an ancient stove would make if it could contract the flu. Feeling the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end, he scrambled backwards up the hillside, watching in horror as the great hulking shape of the castle rose.

“What have you done?” He managed to shout above the accumulated rush of adrenaline, harsh wind, and another sickly groan from the shuddering mass of metal and masonry that was rapidly looming up on him. “This is Amicitia’s castle! This isn’t an appropriate place to stay, you empty vegetable!” If the turnip headed thing had heard or understood him, it payed him no heed as it bounded out from under the path of the castle. Too late, Ignis realised that its slow speed was deceptive. As it climbed the hillside, shaking off the fog like cobwebs, it’s odd bird-like limbs came into view, oscillating up, around, and down like a gigantic glacial lizard, it covered an alarming amount of ground. 

Before he could bully his body into moving, the thing was up, cresting the ridge of the hill and over him, its patchworked underbelly sailing by above Ignis’ head. Caught in the moment, all Ignis could do was watch as the castle traveled almost entirely past him before coming to a juddering halt. The thing quaked and shook with a sound like stressed pipes in a bathroom before giving out and sinking down into a squat. Now that it had ceased moving, the hills felt eerily quiet again, only the insistent hopping of the scarecrow registering to Ignis’ overwhelmed senses. 

Turning to look at the scarecrow in irate disbelief, Ignis only caught a glimpse of it bouncing nervously out of sight behind a low scoop at the back of the castle, the base of which had settled neatly a few inches above the ground. He gripped his cane tightly, as if applying physical pressure to something might help him remain stable, and marched with purpose towards it. 

The other side of the scoop-like feature was flat and, to his surprise, contained a door. A solid, ordinary wood door, with peeling green paint and a cast iron door knob. Ignis eyed it distrustfully. 

Well, he had come out here in search of a wizard, hadn’t he? What did it matter that it was this one? He wasn’t an attractive young woman, after all, so what did he have to fear from something like Amicitia? The creative part of his brain began to construct a list, but by item number seven, it had begun to verge on the ridiculous.

Out beyond the castle’s bulk, the scarecrow bounced, pivoted and wheeled about anxiously, presumably waiting for feedback of some kind. Taking in a fortifying breath of air, Ignis watched it, letting it stew in its uncertainty over its actions for a few moments longer before delivering his verdict. 

“Well, it certainly is out of the cold.” The scarecrow paused, wobbling in place as if listening. “And unbeknownst to you,” Ignis continued “I set out this morning in search of a wizard, and it seems you’ve found me one. Thank you.” 

Pleased, the scarecrow bounded forward to meet him, forgetting about the low overhang of the castle, and only succeeding in knocking its face against the metal underbelly. Ignis winced, reaching out empathetically as it hopped backwards in a stumble to prevent losing its balance. After ensuring it wasn’t about to fall over backwards, it merely stood, still and staring at him, ashamed.

Ignis wasn’t sure what to say. He’d never had to say goodbye to a scarecrow before.

“Do try not to end up in another bush.” The scarecrow shifted on the spot in an embarrassed fashion, and Ignis quickly added “You have my thanks.” which seemed to mollify it slightly. Turning his back on it one last time, he stepped forward and reached for the door knob.

It turned in his hand and swung open easily. Before he could reconsider this course of action, Ignis stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a reaffirming click of the latch.

The space inside was dark, the door opening directly into a narrow stone stairwell, worn and well used. It took a second for his eyes to adjust to the dim light beyond the top of the stairs, warm and flickering, illuminating a room above the sunken stairs. Listening for any signs that he’d been noticed, Ignis fell still, his ears straining against the quiet, but there was nothing bar the distinctive crackle of a fire in a grate. A comforting sound, far too homely for something so monstrously grand. He climbed the stairs cautiously, being careful not to make more noise than necessary. 

He was met by a warm but cluttered room, lit by nothing but the dim shine of moonlight through a small square window, and a low fire, stranded in the middle of an expansive and almost circular fireplace. It put him in mind of the old bread oven Cindy had once shown him at the bakery after asking about a specific kind of dough they baked there─ large enough for a person to curl up in without touching the sides. The curved lintel yawned out to cover the messy hearth like a great mouth caught forever in one contentedly tired moment. It dominated a large portion of the available room, laying claim to yet more space with an assortment of bellows, pots, tongs, and other related paraphernalia. A stout black kettle sat nestled in the heaped ashes which crept out as far as the very edge of the outer hearth, a stained and ragged looking cloth of indeterminate colour draped over the handle haphazardly. 

The rest of the room was largely taken up by a solid looking table, its surface entirely obscured by a jumble of books, scrolls and loose papers. Other than that, the main thing that caught Ignis’ attention was just how filthy everything was. Even in the dim light, the accumulated mud, dust, and grime was stunningly apparent, the beams of the ceiling playing host to a metropolis of cobwebs.

There was a simple kitchen chair pulled up by the fire, the light dancing enticingly across it as if in invitation, casting odd, soft edged shadows through its decorative slats across the rest of the room. Ignis was softly surprised to realise that the only thing he really cared about right now was the chance to sit down in the warm, having never considered such a thing to be a luxury until now. He felt heavier, his body resisting him at every turn just in case he tried to consider pushing it to do anything except sink into that hard backed chair and rest. He obeyed it, shuffling across the gritty floor to ease himself into it creakingly. As he settled with an exhausted huff, he simply allowed himself to relax, boneless under the restorative heat of the fire, his hands folded over the head of his cane between his knees.

After a few minutes of blank minded recooperation, Ignis cracked open an eye to scan the ceiling full of cobwebs, watching absentmindedly as a fat and aged spider ambled amicably by. Reasonably he knew he should feel at least a little trepidation about his current situation, trespassing in a wizard’s castle with an intent to demand help, but he didn’t. In truth, he felt very little at all, too exhausted and overwhelmed to process such risks. His mind cast back to the old woman he purchased eggs from once a week in the market square, how she had always seemed so fearless in her ancientness, like an iron bar against the world. ‘A Character’ as his mother would say, so steadfast in the belief of _herself_ that her relative frailness simply failed to register. 

“Or perhaps,” He mused quietly, adjusting himself in the chair, eyes closed, ready for sleep to claim him. “Fear simply can’t hold onto you in quite the same way, when you’re old.” 

“Maybe. I wouldn’t know.” 

His eyes snapping open, Ignis turned to look behind him awkwardly for the source of the voice, embarrassed that he’d apparently missed whoever was in the room with him. The room appeared to be just as empty of people as it had the first time, however. Had he hallucinated it? The voice had sounded so close.

“That’s a hell of a curse you’re under. Got your work cut out for you removing that one. I wish you luck. Or, I would if I had any.” The same dry, female voice addressed him from the fireplace, nonplussed but sincere. 

Untwisting himself, Ignis turned back to face the fire in the grate incredulously. 

Once, when Ignis had still been a child little more than ten, his father had shown him a printed card with an illustration of a man at a window, crowded with detail, and asked him to find all the secrets. He’d spent most of that rainy afternoon bent over the card, sat up on one end of his father’s work bench as he sewed, only breaking the companionable quiet to indicate each new thing he found. Every single hidden bird, concealed word and peculiar detail, up until no matter how hard he searched, how close he brought the image to his nose to inspect it, there was no more to be found. Upon telling his father this, the man had merely smiled, pinned his needle in place and reached for the card in his son’s hands. 

“There is one more, but you can’t see it up close. Here.” At which he’d held the image away at arms length, inviting Ignis to take a second look at it from a distance. At first he didn’t see anything, simply the man at his window with an arm full of books as before. Then something had shifted internally, and right there, in the center of the image, was the unmistakable shape of a skull, hidden as plain as day amongst all the weird and wonderful detail. 

Spotting her felt the exact same way. One moment there was nothing but ash and the abstract flicker of the flames, and then there she was, right where she had been the entire time, hidden behind the thin veil of an altered perspective. 

She _was_ the fire. 

She wasn't a whole thing, not exactly. It was impossible to look at any particular part of her in detail, and to really see her in her entirety Ignis had to purposefully catch her out of the corner of his eye. As the flames swayed and shifted they filled out the shape of her, like turbulent water in an invisible container. An arm here, a thigh there, the odd dancing flicker the suggestion of lips, an eyebrow, hair.

After staring in a mix of wonderment, disbelief and fear, Ignis collected himself enough to respond. Clearing his throat, he tried his best to sound as though talking, woman-shaped fires were entirely within his realm of life experience.

“Are you Amicitia?” 

She shifted in the grate with a short hum of amusement, flames dancing up to imitate the swing of an intricate ponytail as she moved to lean back on one arm, head tipped onto her shoulder to regard him properly. 

“Gladio? No. Not even close.” a tendril of flame curled at the tip into a crooked grin. “I'm just your regular old fire daemon, being utterly wasted in keeping this hunk of junk in working order.” she waved a hand through the air casually in a soft ‘whoomph’ of fire and a trail of sparks. “Name’s Aranea. And let me guess, there’s a lip-lock on that curse.” 

Ignis sat back in his seat, caught off guard by her instant identification of his predicament. He opened his mouth to respond, to tell her about his strange encounter and how he’d come to be stuck in his prematurely aged state, but frustratingly found that he couldn’t. The words, lined up and present in his mind, wouldn’t budge─ they stuck at the back of his throat like a plug, his tongue unable to so much as trace the shape of them. Feeling like a fish in a pond, gaping dumbly, he shut his mouth again, and pressed his lips into a straight line of firm frustration. 

“Oh that’s a nasty one.” Flipping her hair, she leaned forward in the wide hearth, causing a log to collapse and crack into a flurry of sparks about her hips. “Tell you what, I’ll do you a deal. You find a way out of my contract with Gladio, and I’ll break that curse of yours for you. _Fshhh-_ ” He felt a flash of heat wash over him as she swiped a hand through the air in front of him. “Gone. Easy, right?”

He considered this for a moment. Surely a daemon was, if anything, more powerful than a wizard? Although he had to admit, he knew next to nothing about the nature of these kind of things. His life had consisted of hats and embroidery until now, and he’d expected it to _keep_ consisting of those things until he eventually stitched himself into a hatbox shaped grave at some respectable old age. He hadn’t a clue if this was the kind of thing daemon’s were capable of, or even of the difference between a witch and a wizard, if it came down to it. 

“And what does breaking your contract get you?” Ignis might not know much about the inner workings of wizards and daemons, but after having helped run a small business since he was old enough to hold a pencil, he knew a thing or two about examining the fine print. 

She shrugged, almost flippantly.

“Freedom. Same old pile of ashes day in, day out─ a girl gets bored. I don’t intend to live out the rest of my life as a jumped up _boiler_.” A flickering edge of green suggested that she had shifted her gaze to glance nonplussed at the surrounding room in its dust sagging state. 

Ignis felt a pang of solidarity towards her situation, stuck in an alcove of forced mundanity and unable to leave. Yes, that sounded familiar. Even if he was getting short changed on this arrangement, he found he didn’t especially mind. After all, all he’d come out here for in the first place was to break this curse so he could return to his life. He wasn’t after anything else. 

A tiny note of discordant uncertainty chimed within him objectionably at that thought. He elected to ignored it.

“And you, could you-” He stopped, feeling his throat close up again over the words. Hastily, he reordered them inside his head until he felt the blockade relent. “Could you break a curse, do you think?” 

“Easy. Like frying an egg.”

Settling back into his chair, the weariness of a full and frankly overstimulating day began to settle over him again, weighting his limbs like wet sand, and etching itself into the curve of his cheekbones. The warmth pouring off of Aranea from the hearth felt fantastic. 

“What about this contract then?” He asked, his eyes slipping closed as his mind ticked over like a cooling steam engine, already made up. “What does that entail?”

Without the visuals he had no sense of her movement or expression, all he heard was the natural crackle and pop of a fireplace, soothing and familiar. 

“Well old timer, that’s for you to figure out. You in or not?” 

Ignis hummed an affirmative by way of response as sleep finally began to creep its lilac blue tendrils over his consciousness, like snow settling over rooftops. It really had been a very long day. The last vestiges of his dwindling thought processes pushed him one last time before giving in to the alluring call of unconsciousness, just in case a more substantial agreement was required.

“Alright, Aranea. You have yourself a deal.” 

If she made any further comment, Ignis was not awake to hear it.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been... a very long labour of love. It's taken me almost an entire year of working off and on, mostly off due to some choppy life events, prolonged periods of bad mental health, and several 'burn everything you've ever written who do you think you're kidding' episodes. I even took 3 days over the summer to go and do nothing but roam about the English lake district with nothing but a tent and a few accumulated bits of the soundtrack to clear my head and work on this. Safe to say it got very personal. But there it is, finally. All 15k of it. 
> 
> And it's only the first goddamn chapter.
> 
> Buckle in. I will finish this if it ends me. Even if it's longer than the original goddamn book.  
> I don't know when the next chapter will go up. I expect it'll match the length of this one, for which I apologise in advance.  
> Much love, Blue <3


End file.
